


Moscow Rules

by ShadowandSoot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Modern AU, Romance, i guess?, i'm not good at naming things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5660992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowandSoot/pseuds/ShadowandSoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Once is an accident. Twice is coincidence. Three times is an enemy action."<br/>Cyril Lavellan keeps finding her freshly dried laundry on top of the dirty dryer and has to rewash. At this point, she suspects foul play but she may not be able to stay mad at her laundry bandit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tumble Dry

“Oh, _Fenedhis lasa_ -! _Again?_ ” Lavellan walked into the communal laundry room to once again find her previously clean laundry tossed in a haphazard pile on top of the dryer. The laundry room was dim, dusty, and had a low ceiling; it certainly didn’t reflect the perfectly liveable rest of the building. Along the wall were three washing machines and three dryers, but one dryer had been broken since Lavellan moved in years ago, and another had broken several months ago. Their repair seemed to be of little concern to the management. Scooping her laundry up with one arm and plucking sovereigns out of her pocket with the other, she walked back to the washer and threw her clothes in with a frustrated huff. For weeks now, every time she left her clothes in the only working dryer she returned to them on top of the dirty dryer and therefore re-sullied. The unknown perpetrator had always cleaned out their own clothes by the time Cyril came upon the crime scene. She started the washer again and perched herself on top of it, pulling out her phone.

[Cyril]: _It happened again. AGAIN_

[Dorian]: _?_

[Cyril]: _Laundry_

[Dorian]: _Have you considered, I dunno, NOT leaving your laundry unattended?_

[Cyril]: _You know that the dryer in my building takes FOREVER_

[Cyril]: _It’s like the only time I get any of my other errands done tbh_

[Cyril]: _I’m not gonna sit here for two and half hours while my clothes dry but i swear on the makers taint i’m gonna find the bastard who keeps doing this to my laundry and i’m gonna… idk but i’m gonna do something_

[Dorian]: _Give ‘em hell, dear_

[Cyril]: _I enjoy our talks_

Cyril slipped the phone back into her pocket, heaved a deep sigh, and hopped off the washer in order to retrieve her mail in the meantime. Exiting the dim laundry room, she walked into the lobby up to the bank of aluminium mailboxes which were stacked in order to reflect the layout of the building; four floors with three units to a floor. She fumbled through her pocket for the small key with _2C_ engraved on it and jimmied it into its corresponding lock to retrieve the modest stack of mail— a standard mix of bills, newsletters, and junk mail. As she sorted through the envelopes, she heard the lobby door open behind her but paid it no attention until she noticed a shadow over her and the sound of a throat being cleared.

“Pardon me,” the voice spoke as Cyril startled.

“Oh, right, sorry,” she said as she moved out the way and glanced at her neighbour. She swallowed hard: 3B. She had gained familiarity with most of her neighbours at some some point, but 3B had never so much as spoken a word to her until that moment. Cyril knew 3B only from the times they crossed paths in the lobby or in the stairwell. He provided curt nods, the occasional ghost of a polite smile, and nothing else. As far as Cyril could tell, he was the only other elf in the building. Tall- even for an elf- and with a peculiar array of sharp features that may not have been conventionally attractive, but ones that Cyril found strangely appealing. His wardrobe was always very basic; simple button-downs, sweaters, dark slacks or jeans, the occasional tie or blazer, but everything he wore was meticulously tailored to his form. So much so that in combination with his immaculate posture and bald head, Cyril hypothesized that he earned a living as a mannequin for a high-end clothing store. Whether his baldness was for fashion or from unfortunate genetics, she couldn’t tell. 3B gathered his mail and made his way towards up the stairs. Cyril released the breath she had been holding since he entered and whipped out her phone again.

[Cyril]: _Saw 3B again. Oh man, he had his sleeves rolled up just so- I can’t handle it. I mean, he’s a weird looking guy, but like a good weird you know?_

[Dorian]: _I AM at work Cyr_

[Cyril]: _sorry, haha, remember you love me <3_

[Dorian]: _yes just keep reminding me_

[Dorian]: _I’m getting off soon though_

[Dorian]: _meet at Crossroads in around 30? I’m going to need at least several drinks after today_

[Cyril]: _Yup, see you soon_

Cyril returned to the laundry room to deposit her clothes into the dryer again and headed out towards the Crossroads Café, apparently unperturbed by the risk of leaving her laundry unattended once again.

The Crossroads Café was a tucked away little place only a few blocks from Cyril’s apartment. While it operated as a café during the day, it offered a full-service bar in the evenings and into the night. Cyril seated herself at her favourite little booth in the corner and ordered Dorian and herself drinks. She only had to wait a few minutes until she saw Dorian come through the door and spot her in the back. Dorian walked up to the table with open arms and Cyril rose to meet his embrace as Dorian placed a chaste kiss to her temple.

“I’m always impressed you’ve made it this far in the day without me,” he said, removing his coat and taking a seat across from her.

“Oh, just barely, Dorian, just barely,” she said while trying to hide a smile. “Is Josephine coming?”

“She’s up in Nevarra on an acquisitions trip, remember?”

“Aw, damn, I forgot about that. How was work?”

Dorian scowled. “Same shit as usual; Fiona refuses to allow me to reorganise everything despite repeated fuck-ups with the current system. Honestly, it’d be easier to find what you were looking for if you simply followed an insect around for long enough, you’d get there at about the same rate.” Dorian sighed dramatically and took a long swig of his drink.

“Isn’t there anyone else besides Fiona you can talk to about this?” Cyril said with a frown.

“Unfortunately, no. Fiona is head curator and I’m just a _lowly_ archivist, so what Fiona dictates is gospel. Fiona could ask for my testicles on fishhooks to wear as earrings and the only thing I could do about it is spread my legs,” Dorian said as he grimaced and crossed his legs tightly at the thought. Cyril mirrored his gesture and patted his arm.

“Did your date with that Iron Bull guy go well at least?” Cyril regretted the question as soon as she spoke it. At the mention of Bull’s name, Dorian’s eyes went wide as he dragged a hand down his face.

“Maker’s breath. It was awful. _Awful_ , Cyril. The man was an animal, and I’m not saying that because he’s Qunari. I felt like I had to shower and burn all my clothes afterwards— and you know how much I love my clothes,” Dorian said with a whimper. He rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his temples.

Cyril’s brow rose in surprise. “Maker, that bad? What happened?”

Dorian ran a hand through his hair, seemingly trying to find the words. “He was… Let me put it this way: I met him at the bar, apologised for being late, right? I said ‘Sorry I’m late, I got tied up at work’ and the first thing this man says to me, Cyril, the _first_ thing he says is ‘Is work the only place you like to get tied up or does it extend to the bedroom?’” Dorian said, making a face as though he was tasting something foul. “And let me tell you: that was the most palatable thing he said the whole evening.”

Cyril let out a long breath. “Wow. I’m sorry about that, Dorian. And you said that Josephine set you up with him? She usually has such good taste, I wonder what happened.”

“Ohoho, _trust_ me, love, I’ve given our dear friend Josie an earful already. She says she doesn’t know him that well and he seemed amicable around her, but let’s just say she owes me more than one drink when she gets back. But-” he punctuated the word with a fist on the table. “-enough about my wretched week; you said you saw your mystery man again?” Dorian flashed a wicked grin.

Cyril looked at him disparagingly. “He’s not a _mystery man_ , Dorian, he’s a neighbour. You know, he actually spoke to me today.” Dorian raised his eyebrows suggestively and leaned in with a feigned overenthusiastic smile and Cyril pulled back her shoulders and deepened her voice to the lowest register she could achieve. “ _Pardon me_ ,” she said and coughed out a laugh as Dorian drew a hand to his chest.

“He _didn’t!”_ Dorian teased.

“He _did!_ I’m getting the wedding invitations printed as we speak.” Cyril extended her palm out across an imaginary banner. “You’re invited! To the wedding of Mr and Mrs 3B Lavellan- he would take my name, of course, this isn’t ancient times.”

“Obviously! How delightful, I can’t wait to meet the children, 4D and 7E.”

“-twins, of course,” Cyril added, resting her chin over her clasped hands. She leaned across the table and tenderly cupped Dorian’s face in her palm. “Dorian?” she said, her eyes glimmering.

“Yes, Cyril?” Dorian said as he stretched out his arms to hold her face, sniffing back fake tears.

“Will you-” she scrunched her face as to hold back tears, “-be the godfather?”

Dorian threw his arms up and wrapped them around her and buried his face in her hair. His fake tears having now turned into fake wails of joy. “Oh, _Cyril,_ I thought you’d never ask!” The two of them had garnered quite a bit of attention from their surrounding tables with people shooting them curious looks before raising eyebrows, shaking heads, and returning to their drinks. Cyril and Dorian pulled apart from each other, wiping the laughter from their eyes. After quite a time, Dorian yawned and looked at his watch, groaning when he saw the time. “Well, you know how much I love seeing you, darling, but the morrow beckons! If I don’t get enough sleep, I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold back the delirium and I’ll murder Fiona. Come, I’ll walk you home.”

Cyril and Dorian rose from their table and put their coats on as the left the Crossroads, linking arms and leaning slightly on one another for balance. When they reached Cyril’s building, they exchanged their typical hugs and cheek kisses, and Dorian gave Cyril a little mock salute as she turned from her, his hand waving after him.

“Text me when you get home!” Cyril called after him. She was about to head upstairs until she remembered her laundry again and cursed under her breath. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a dryer door being opened and then closed. Cyril tried to shake the grogginess from her head and dashed into the laundry room to finally catch her perpetrator. She threw the door open, prepared to exclaim some choice words, but when the time came and the door opened she couldn’t muster the words.

 

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify: I don't dislike Iron Bull, but I've never liked the way people ship him and dorian (even though the two are ((sometimes)) canon). I dunno, Dorian never seemed to warm to Bull's aggressive "flirting" and was extremely uncomfortable when Bull spilled about their tryst (where it's implied that Bull took advantage of Dorian's drunkenness).  
> Dorian/Bull just gives me bad vibes so I wanted to do something a little different from most.


	2. Do Not Wring

Squatted on his haunches, 3B was hunched over scooping out Lavellan’s laundry from the dryer. He froze at the sound of her voice and whipped his head around, eyes wide.

“3B? What are you doing?!” Cyril, of course, knew what he was doing, but she was hoping somewhere deep down that her handsome neighbour and her laundry bandit were not the same person. An eyebrow of his arched as he made himself upright.

“What did you call me?” There was no threat in his voice, only amused curiosity. Cyril felt the heat rising in her ears.

“I don’t know your name, I only know your unit number,” she said dismissively, waving an arm back in the direction of her laundry. “What are you doing with my clothes?”

“You left them in the dryer,” 3B said plainly, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Yeah, I know, you’ve been pulling this shit for weeks! Why?” Her voice was becoming a whine.

“You leave them in the dryer,” he repeated, his even tone becoming infuriating.

“For one minute, what is the matter with you?!”

3B’s eyebrows rose again in seeming amusement. “You leave them in the dryer well after they have dried.”

“What are you talking about, this dryer takes two and half hours, I timed it. You’ve always fucked with my stuff when I come back.” 3B’s face was completely unwavering and his lack of apparent guilt was making her nervous. He laughed from deep in his chest, and even through her anger and nerves she considered it a maddeningly pleasant sound.

“No,” he began, “this dryer takes one hour and twenty minutes. You leave your laundry in the dryer for two and a half hours. Just because your laundry is done over two hours after you deposit them it does not mean it isn’t finished sooner.”

Cyril’s breath stilled as she processed his words, slowly realising that he was more than likely right and she was running out of defences. She shook her head, still slightly foggy from drink. “Okay, fine, say you’re right: why? Where do you get off messing with my stuff?”

He smiled, his expression becoming more self-satisfied by the minute. “I must admit— at first it was coincidence, but it became a recurrence and… at some point, I just wanted to see how long it would take you to do something about it.”

Cyril stood slack-jawed for a moment and then pushed past 3B to grab her laundry. “You’re a smug ass!” she snapped, although she tried to conceal her smile; he may be an ass, but there was something charming about him. Not that she was about to let him know she thought that. It dawned on her that he was still holding a handful of her laundry. Including her underwear. He was holding her underwear. Cyril’s eyes grew to dinner plates as she turned a deep shade of crimson and seized her clothes from his arms. “I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted!” she said as she headed towards the door. Any attempt at looking dignified with arms full of laundry, ears burning red, and alcohol-induced lack of balance was a complete waste of time.

“Ahem-” 3B pointedly cleared his throat, and Cyril turned to meet his gaze, ready to fire off a retort. 3B tilted his head towards his hand which was outstretched in front of him, a pair of Cyril’s panties hooked over his finger. A small choked noise died in her throat as she snatched them off his finger with almost enough force to take the finger with her. His lips pulled into a broad grin, and Cyril suspected her booziness may have influenced her perception, but she dared to garner that there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

 

* * *

The next morning woke Cyril with a dull throbbing behind the eyes. She knew she should have drunk more water. Or not been drinking on an empty stomach. She groaned, rolled out of bed, and shuffled into the kitchen to switch the kettle on in preparation for the world’s biggest cup of coffee. She took a hasty shower and pulled her silver-white hair into a loose bun to dry. When she looked in the mirror, she realised she forgot to take her makeup off last night and it had migrated under her eyes, further accentuating her tired dark circles. She wiped off the residue and lightly reapplied some makeup as to not frighten any neighbours. After getting dressed, she returned to the kitchen where she filled up her thermos with coffee and offensive amounts of milk and sugar. As she locked her door on her way out, she bumped into her neighbour, a young dwarf woman named Lace- of all things.

“Hey, Cyril! How you doing?” she said, wrapping a scarf around her neck.

“Hey, Lace, I’m doing okay,” Cyril shrugged, “more or less the same, really. How about you?”

“Good! I’ve been assigned a new survey site, so there’s gonna be a lot of stuff to sift through, but I’m looking forward to it! I know most people find CRM boring, but I think it’s fascinating.” Lace blushed slightly, but Cyril admired her passion. Then a thought dawned on her. “Lace, actually, I have a possibly weird question, but do you know anything about 3B?”

Lace quirked a brow and said “3B?”

“Yeah, the guy who lives upstairs in 3B. Tall, elf, bald.” Cyril was trying to feign indifference, but Lace smiled knowingly. They started making their way down the stairs.

“Ah, that guy. I don’t really know that much about him, he keeps to himself mostly. He lives right above me, and I’ve never heard a peep from up there. I heard him answer the phone once,” she said, tapping her chin. “I think he said his name was Solace? But that seems like a weird name so I have my doubts.”

“Yeah, Solace would be a weird name, _Lace_ ,” Cyril teased. Lace rolled her eyes and smiled.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Anyway, I can’t think of a name that sounds similar. Maybe something elven?”

Cyril thought for a moment but couldn’t come up with anything. “No idea. Anyway, I gotta get going-”

“As do I.”

“See you around, yeah?” The women parted ways exiting the lobby with an exchange of waves. Cyril turned her collar up against the brisk wind and pulled back some of the strands of hair that had fallen out of place and into her face. Pulling out her phone, she sat down at the bus stop and began to text Dorian.

_[Cyril]: You never texted me last night, are you dead_

_[Dorian]: deeply sorry- I just crashed when I got home, I hope you didn’t worry too much :P_

_[Cyril]: as your wife, I will always worry about you, pumpkin_

_[Dorian]: as your husband, I must admit to you that I have been making several other conquests_

_[Dorian]: just one woman after the other, breasts everywhere, truly a delight_

_[Cyril]: I TRUSTED YOU, VHENAN_

_[Dorian]: I'm drafting the divorce papers as we speak_

_[Cyril]: Oh wait! I discovered the laundry bandit last night, I’m devastated!!!!_

_[Dorian]: was it one of my aforementioned conquests?_

_[Cyril]: 3b!!!!!!! 3b is the laundry bandit!!!!!!_

_[Dorian]: no!_

_[Cyril]: YES_

_[Cyril]: hes kind of an ass but he wasn’t as big of a stick in the mud as I’d assumed he’d be_

_[Dorian]: okay but 1)is being an ass better than being boring? 2) does he HAVE an ass?_

_[Cyril]: I’m not sure about 1; he doesn’t seem like an ACTUAL ass, just… idk it kinda seemed like he was just messing with me for shits and giggles_

_[Dorian]: whatever you need to tell yourself, dear. what about 2?_

_[Cyril]: no one's is as good as yours but it's not bad_

_[Cyril]: I’ll talk to you later, my bus is here_

* * *

At the end of the work day, Cyril had nearly made it back home when her phone buzzed in her pocket again. It was Dorian, asking if she wanted to meet for dinner and drinks again. She was about to tap out a reply when she looked into the lobby and saw 3B retrieving his mail again. Fingers paused over her phone screen.

_[Cyril]: not tonight, I’m already exhausted_

The phone buzzed in response as she was returning it to her pocket, but she did not read it. She hurried into the building, shaking off the cold wind that followed her.

“So we meet again!” She said, trying to sound like she hadn’t just rushed inside in order to bump into him. She wasn’t doing a good job.

“It appears we have,” he said, not meeting her gaze and continuing to sort through his mail, tossing junk into the nearby trash bin.

“So- uh- I didn’t catch your name last night, I feel kinda bad referring to you as ‘3B’ and ‘laundry bandit.’” She extended a hand. “I’m Cyril.”

3B accepted the handshake with a polite smile. “You refer to me that often?” he said. Cyril felt her ears grow warm and he was still holding her hand. “I am Solas if there are to be introductions.”

 _So that’s where Lace got ‘Solace’ from_ , she thought and he finally released her hand. Cyril cleared her throat. “So, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been hogging the only working dryer in the building. It was an accident but it was still kind of shitty.” Solas gave a small nod and busied himself with his pockets. Cyril waited a moment for a response but none came. “Really?” Cyril said, untensing her shoulders. Solas finally looked up at her with an eyebrow raised.

“What ‘really’?” he said flatly. He had seemed a little livelier last night. Had he been drinking too, perhaps? Cyril’s mouth fell open, slightly indignant.

“What do you mean ‘ _what really_ ’? I said I was sorry, and then you’re supposed to say sorry back to me for fucking with my laundry for weeks! Do you know how much money I spent having to rewash all my laundry? What is your _problem_ , man?”

Solas gave a small chuckle and nodded. “I suppose you are right. And you seem to have put a lot of thought into your argument. I have matters to attend to right now, so would you care to continue your lecture over coffee instead? I would hate for it to go to waste, and it seems I owe you some compensation.”

“I-” Cyril paused, mouth a bit agape. Did he really just ask her out? She breathed in deeply through her nose and propped her hands onto her hips. “Okay. Fine.” If he was going to an ass, she may as well get some free coffee out it. Solas tore off a corner from one of his envelopes, pulled a pen from his pocket, and scribbled down his number. He took Cyril’s wrist with one hand and pressed the paper into her palm with the other, and then swiftly headed towards the garage without another word. Cyril looked at the paper in her hand. Solas had very nice handwriting. She added the number into her phone and peck out a message as she headed upstairs.

_[Cyril]: this is Cyril_

She considered adding a non-threatening smiley face but decided she didn’t want to seem familiar. A reply came shortly after. She imagined he couldn’t have left the parking lot yet.

_[Solas]: Noted. Will you be available tomorrow at 7 p.m.?_

_[Cyril]: Yes, how about Crossroads Café down the street?_

_[Solas]: Yes, that is fine._

Cyril walked into the living room and fell onto the couch, releasing a deep breath with a puff of her cheeks. She was so intrigued by Solas, but she wasn't sure why. She decided that if he really was an total jerk that she would milk him for the most expensive coffee on the menu. She stared at her phone for a moment and then tapped out a message to Dorian.

_[Cyril]: I think I have a date with 3B/laundry bandit tomorrow_

_[Dorian]: Andraste save us_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Classes are starting up tomorrow so I'm not sure when I going to able to update next, but hopefully not too long! Thank y'all for reading :)


	3. Permanently Pressed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas fucks up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to stop uploading chapters at 1am

Cyril scooted herself into the Crossroads Café and headed toward her favourite booth only to find it occupied. She made a dejected huff under her breath and settled herself a few tables down. She wanted to get there early, to get there before Solas, as if in some strange act of dominance; her letting him into her space rather than vice versa. It wasn’t until she peeled off her coat and folded it next to her that she realised it just made her seem overeager. The server stopped by her table.

“You’re here early,” he said with a smile.

“What are you talking about, Krem, I’m here in the morning all the time.”

“Yeah, but you’re usually a before nine or after nine type.”

“I’m meeting someone— not Dorian. Can I just get two waters ‘til he gets here?”

Krem raised his eyebrows suggestively at her. “Not Dorian and at an off hour for you? My, must be someone special,” he said as he turned to head back towards the bar. Cyril raised a would-be-threatening finger and called out after him, “Don’t you dare, Krem!”

 

Ten minutes later, Solas showed up and Cyril laughed to herself; he was brilliantly bundled in a long coat and thick knit scarf, but his bald head was left exposed— pale and peeking out the top of his many dark layers. The points of his ears were pink with cold. He was looking around as he removed his scarf and Cyril caught his eye with a wave of her arm. Cyril watched him as he moved through the tables with long, fluid motions. He shrugged off his coat and sat across from her. Barely before Solas could take his seat, Krem had zoomed over to the table with a poorly concealed smirk and wide eyes as he did a terrible job at not looking like he wanted to give Cyril so much shit for what was obviously a date.

“You ready to order?”

Solas’s brow knotted slightly at Krem’s over eagerness. “Mackay’s Epic, neat.”

Cyril raised her eyebrows at him. “What happened to coffee?”

“Coffee, at seven in the evening? I’m not an animal,” Solas said.

“Well then,” she said, turning to Krem with daggers for eyes, “an Abyssal Peach for me, thanks, Krem.” Krem nodded and headed back to the bar again. Solas ran his fingers over the condensation on his glass of water.

“First name basis with the waiter; you come here often?”

“Yeah, it’s close to home and I don’t have a car,” she said with a little shrug. “I like it.”

Solas nodded. “Fair criteria. So, about the rest of that lecture you had for me,” he said as he laced his fingers and propped his chin upon them.

“You were serious about that? Uh, I dunno, I didn’t… save it. I was just angry. You were kind of being an asshole.”

Solas barked out a laugh. “I suppose you are right. It seemed fair game at the time, but I understand your frustration. I apologise,” he said with a nod. Krem returned to their table and delivered their drinks before going back to busying himself with other tables as the evening crowd began to filter in. They each tested their drinks. With a wince, Cyril swallowed her drink; it was much stronger than usual, and she suspected Krem was responsible.

“Apology accepted, but I’ve got my eye on you.”

A smirk played on Solas’s lips. “I certainly hope so,” he said so quietly that Cyril almost thought she imagined him saying it, but she blushed regardless. She cleared her throat.

“So, long how have you been in that building, anyway?”

 “Hm, I moved in when all three dryers where working. Going on three years now. I can afford better, but I prefer to save any surplus of income for travel and other such luxuries.” Solas gave a little shrug and downed his drink in one gulp, and then made a motion to Krem over at the bar for another.

“Oh,” was about all Cyril could muster between Solas’s odd humblebrag about his income and the vivacity with which he consumed his alcohol. After a short, awkward silence, Krem deposited another drink in front of Solas.

“What do you do, exactly? I rarely see you coming or going,” Cyril asked, desperate to change the subject because Solas was watching at her with a certain intensity that unnerved her. He straightened up and clasped his hands in front of him.

“I’m an art conservator, I do some of my work from home.” He took a sip of his drink and then added, “At least, the pieces below a certain value and that fit through the doorway.”

Cyril never would have pegged him for an artist. “That’s amazing! I bet you get to see some beautiful pieces of history,” she said, but Solas responded with a hollow laugh and a sip of his drink. His forehead furrowed and he seemed to be holding back when he said, “I suppose.” Cyril raised her brows at him, prompting elaboration. Solas sighed and slouched down in his seat.

“I am currently working on a few Dalish pieces and their definition of _history_ is profoundly looser than one would hope,” he said. He certainly wasn’t being shy. Cyril straightened up and ran her fingers over her unmarked face. An elf in the city with no vallaslin, of course he didn’t think she could be Dalish. She opened her mouth to protest but decided to egg him on.

“What do you mean?” she said, attempting her best to sound curious rather than insulted.

“How much time do you have?” he scoffed, but when Cyril didn’t react, he continued. “The Dalish embellish myth and call it history, etch their lies into their faces and call it tribute, and then they call themselves guardians. It’s childishly misguided.” He finished his drink with a deep swig and muffled cough.

Cyril was struggling to maintain her composure. “And how do you know the Dalish are wrong?”

“When you’ve studied history as long and as thoroughly as I have, you find out quickly just how foolish and simple the Dalish are. It would be almost respectable if it weren’t so pathetic.”

Cyril’s fist hit the table with a thud that rattled their glasses. “ _At least we’re trying!”_ she hissed through her teeth. Solas stared at her with slowly dawning realisation and pinched the bridge of his nose. He sighed. “You’re Dalish.” Not a question.

Cyril stood up and hurriedly pulled on her coat. “Yes, yes, I’m Dalish, so I'm going to go ahead and leave before any of my _pathetic foolishness_ rubs off on you.”

“Cyril, I’m-” Solas reached towards her arm, but she tore herself out of his reach.

“Fuck off,” she snapped, and she pushed through the now-crowded bar. It was dark and cold and windy outside, and Cyril turned up her collar and pulled her hair over her shoulder to keep it whipping about. She was shaking as she rushed home, and she only wished it was from the cold. Then she remembered that she trying to get away from someone who lived in the same building as she did. Head bowed against the wind, she cursed under her breath; she felt like an idiot. She reached home a few frigid minutes later, and ascended the stairs. When she had cleared the first floor, she heard the lobby door open again and she had a decent guess at whom it was. The sound of hurried steps and heavy breathing quickly caught up to her as she slid her key into its lock.

“Cyril,” Solas said, trying to mask his shortness of breath. “Cyril, I am sorry.”

“I really don’t want to hear it, _Solas_.” She spoke his name like a curse.

“Please,” Solas said. His hand reached for hers, which was wrapped around her key in the lock. Upon contact, a rush of calm muffled her anger, but she still looked at him with a heated frown. Cyril pushed Solas’s hand off, finished unlocking her door, pushed the door open, and then turned to face Solas with her arm tightly crossed. Solas swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry. I spoke out of spite and out of drink. You have every right to be angry, but I hope that you can forgive me.” Indeed, Solas’s ears with pink with liquor and Cyril knew MacKay’s Epic to be a sinfully strong spirit, but she still didn’t feel like letting him off that easy.

Cyril shifted on her feet and let out a slow breath. “Make it up to me,” she said, and with that, she stepped into her apartment and closed the door with an abrupt snap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, and this chapter is a little shorter than I hoped, but I kinda hit a wall. I know where I'm going with this, just had to get over this hump. It'll get better, I promise!


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